


Distraction

by TheMagicMeep



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-20
Updated: 2014-04-20
Packaged: 2018-01-20 04:21:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1496482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheMagicMeep/pseuds/TheMagicMeep
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>France gets distracted in a world meeting. Scotland is not helping.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Distraction

**Author's Note:**

  * For [losthitsu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/losthitsu/gifts).



> Hitsu wanted guy!Scotland/France porn and I'm working on it. I promise. But until then you get this.

Scotland was an impressive man, at least to Frances mind. Tall and broad he could cut his way through a crowd with ease and had been known to toss a caber like it weighed no more than a bag of sugar. France also thought him handsome, though in a careless and rather _rugged_ way that was only accentuated by his wild red curly hair and dark green eyes.

France would quite like to run his hands through that thick lovely hair, tangle his fingers in the soft curls and kiss those chapped lips but alas he was supposed to be _working_.

Today Scotland was wearing a tight white shirt that clung to every muscle and solid inch of him and France… France was appreciative to say the very least. The subtle shift of his broad shoulders, the way the shirt bared his pale neck, those large hands idly playing with a pen and even just the way the man _moved_ was more than enough to entertain France through England’s long and insufferably _boring_ presentation. 

The room they had all been stuffed into was far too hot, the sun blinding France every time he dared to look up in the direction of the whiteboard. It was the type of heat that made Friday afternoons even more troublesome than they would normally be, sinking lethargy deep into the bones of those unfortunate enough to be stuck in it.

He had _tried_ to pay attention, but France had found his eyes sliding away from the printed words in front of him and the speakers voices had all joined together to become nothing more than background noise. England was doing well just to elevate his own presentation from that to something that actually registered. Even if it was just as something annoying; like the buzzing of a bushy-browed, angry bee in an expensive suit.

France would have liked to sit next to Scotland during the meeting, for several different reasons few of which were what would be classed as _productive_ but unfortunately- and perhaps _wisely_ \- Germany had taken the choice away from him. Instead France was stuck between Germany and the Netherlands and he had a sneaking suspicion that Germany still hadn’t found it in his heart to forgive and forget the last time he had allowed them to sit together.

But really France couldn’t help it if his hands had a tendency to _wander_ when put in proximity to Scotland’s strong Kilt clad thighs.

Scotland, clearly just as bored with politics as France, sighed, rested his scruffy chin on his hands and stared blankly at a spot on the ceiling across from him. His eyes, behind their wire framed glasses took on a rather vacant look and France found himself chuckling. Poor Scotland didn’t have the years of experience that the rest of them did in handing these modern meetings, as a result he had no idea of how to survive hours full of droning and meaningless presentations while looking as though he was actually paying attention.

Although, France realised suddenly, it would have been rather obvious to anyone who had happened to look in his direction that he had been staring at Scotland intently for at the very least the last ten minutes. He must look like a lovesick maid from one of the Romance novels that England tended leave lying around everywhere.  

France huffed sadly and tried in vain to look elsewhere, but his eyes kept getting drawn back to rest on Scotland. On his jaw, with its covering of red stubble, on his straight nose with its dusting of faint freckles and on those magnificent and world famous family eyebrows. Even as he watched, Scotland wrinkled his nose slightly at something his brother said.

“ _Adorable”_ squeaked France’s romantic heart. He may have even sighed longingly, judging by the Netherland’s amused snicker and the way Prussia mimicked swooning from across the room when France was fool enough to glance at him. 

Germany glared at him over at him disapprovingly, but France as usual completely ignored him. Watching Scotland daydream was far more entertaining than whatever England was yapping about now and surely even _Germany_ was capable of admiring such a fine specimen of a nation.

That did not however mean that Germany -or anyone else for that matter- was actually _allowed_ to exercise this capability.

Scotland stole his wandering attention again when he lifted his glass of water to take a deep swig and France found himself watching in fascination as the other man’s throat worked. He licked his wet lips and suddenly the very air felt thick in Frances mouth. Heat was now building in his groin which had absolutely nothing to do with the warmth of the room and it made France shift uncomfortably in his seat.

Finally even Germany had enough and called the end to meeting. France could have cheered, as it was he threw his laptop and notes into his suitcase, waved off any offers of dinner and was out the door after Scotland before Prussia and Spain could descend to mock him.

Much as he loved his friends he had other priorities.

Scotland had bolted the moment Germany had given his pronouncement, apparently fearing that he might have a sudden change of heart and call them all back in for yet another hour of torture. 

But much as France had expected he didn’t have to go far to find the other nation.

He found Scotland outside, leaning against the wall and waiting patiently for him. He smiled down at him, green eyes bright and so happy to be free and have France at his side that France found himself smiling back.

“What took you so long?” Scotland asked, as he gently relieved France of his suitcase, “I thought you must’ve got lost”.

France scoffed at him, reaching out to take Scotland’s larger hand in his and wind their fingers together. “I could not just _run_ out the door like some people” he raised a blonde eyebrow at Scotland’s suddenly sheepish expression “ _mon cher_ ”.


End file.
